Get Your Photo Taken With Santa! or Candy Canes
by Sailor Comet
Summary: Short, pointless holiday fluff. (3+4)


I didn't think I'd do a holiday fic. I really didn't.

And then I helped my mom out with Santa photos. 

Most of the photos and/or what the little kids say actually happened. Thankfully, our Santa didn't tell anybody to shut up… that I know of.

Warnings: Holiday cheer, attempt for humour, boy kisses other boy, minor OCs (the Photographer – she's my mom – and the kids)

(I wrote and posted this last year… that'd be X-mas of 2001. You can find more of my Gundam Wing fics at http://www.gwnation.net )

**Get Your Photo Taken With Santa Clause!**

**(Or)**

**Candy Canes**

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Quatre's father said, brushing his bangs out of his face. "I'm Muslim, for crying out loud."

"Yeah, but that's just 'cause Grandpa would've killed you if you were anything else."

"Look, the only reason you got out of it was because my father was dead by the time you were born, else you'd have suffered the same fate. But still, I'm not even that old! I should be insulted!"

"Daaaaad, it's not that you're old. Ms. Susan just said that you had the best bone structure, that's all," Quatre said, helping his father into the red outfit. "Besides, you get paid!"

His father hmphed in reply, and Quatre bit his lip so he wouldn't smile too much. "She could have at least included instructions on this thing." 

"It's not that hard," Quatre lied, noticing that his fingers were getting tangled in the wig. 

"Whatever you say. So, how do I look?" His father turned around, and Quatre could only grin widely, showing off his pearly whites. 

His father's bangs had been brushed back and hidden under the long white wig, so that now both brown eyes were visible – actually, that was almost all that was visible of the man. The fake beard and mustache that must've itched like hell effectively covered up anything below his nose, and the wig came down right on top of his eyebrows. The red outfit with its fluffy, soft, white lining was long-sleeved, and there were even a pair of white gloves to cover up his hands. 

"You make a great Santa Clause, pops!" 

"I'm sure."

"Don't frown like that! You have to smile for the camera, even though we can't see your mouth, all right? You can still tell from your eyes. And Ms. Susan'll be here soon!"

"You are too damn perky. No candy canes for you."

"Aw, Daaaaad!"

"We're here!" Father and son turned to face the door, where Ms. Susan and a boy around Quatre's age walked in. The boy's resemblance to Quatre's dad made he and Quatre flinch; with the exception of the alert, green eyes the boy could've been a younger Mr. Winner. Well, that and his hair was spikier and a bit lighter than Mr. Winner's. 

Ms. Susan walked over, looking Mr. Winner up and down. Apparently satisfied, she set down her camera and beckoned to the green-eyed boy. He walked over, setting down his own luggage – a tripod and a bag of what must've been camera equipment. She turned to Mr. Winner again. 

"I really wanna say, thank you for doing this," She said, and Quatre's mind made a comparison of her voice with nails on a chalkboard. "The other Santa we had for today cancelled, and I thought we'd have to cancel too, and then all the little kids wouldn't get their photos done! Anyway, you look fine. Remember to smile, we can tell by your eyes, and look at the camera when I tell the little kid to look. Be friendly, offer them a candy cane after they've had their picture, not before or they'll get it all over their faces and hands. Oh! And this is Trowa. He's assisting me." She put and hand on the boy's back and pushed him forward, perhaps a bit too hard, because she accidentally pushed him into Quatre.

"Sorry," Trowa muttered, with his soft, perfect voice. 

"It's OK," Quatre said, trying his best not to loose his voice and succeeding, for the most part. 

"Quit flirting!" Ms. Susan's pernicious voice cut in, and Quatre knew his father's eye twitched. "Here, Trowa, set up this stand. You're Quatre, right? Set up that other stand behind the chair."

The first child who didn't start crying immediately when they were placed on Santa's lap was a little blond toddler, dressed in a red outfit just for her photo. She gave Santa a Look when he asked what she wanted for Christmas, and then instead of answering him, asked, "Where's your mouth?"

"Smile! Look at the camera!" Click. Flash.

"Can adults get their photos too?" Quatre turned around to see two men who were at least as tall as his dad, both wearing wide grins under their hook noses. "And can Jews?"

"I don't see why not," Quatre smirked, glancing at his dad. Mr. Winner's expression under the beard was a picture of horror, but he smiled for the camera when his legs were squished. 

"One more for the Jewish times!"

Click. Flash.

"I need a break," Mr. Winner admitted, standing up from the chair after an hour or so. He groaned as his knees unbent, and walked (read: limped) out to find the bathroom. Ms. Susan was happily oblivious, reviewing how many people had gotten photos and calculating how much money she'd get for it. 

Quatre and Trowa sat at a table a ways away from the Santa chair, with a bowl of candy canes between them. Neither was talking much, though Quatre mostly wasn't talking because he was busy sucking on a candy cane. Trowa was readjusting his bangs after one of the children had pulled of his hat and in the process, pulled on his hair. 

"How do you get your bangs like that?" Quatre asked, taking a break from his pretty pink candy. 

Trowa shrugged. "I think it's genetic." He finished with his hair, setting the red hat gently on his head. 

"You could poke somebody's eye out with that," Quatre noticed, giving his candy cane a lick. "How do you kiss people?"

"Wanna find out?" Trowa asked, and though he didn't grin his eyes flashed.

Quatre bit his candy cane with a loud crunch, and was silent until Santa came back. 

"You're not the real Santa!"

"What? Why?"

"'Cause the real Santa doesn't talk!"

"Shut up and smile, kid."

"And the real Santa doesn't say shut up!"

Click. Flash.

"I'm almost done with this roll," Ms. Susan said. "I've got about two more shots. Quatre, Trowa, go sit on Santa's lap! Don't worry, I'll give you guys copies."

Quatre shrugged and got up, ignoring his father's requests of "Can they sit on the ground instead of my lap?" Trowa followed suit, though he warned Ms. Susan not to expect him to smile. 

The first picture went innocently enough. There was one toothy smile from Quatre, who had gotten to multiple candy canes and now was fairly sugar high, despite Mr. Winner saying that he couldn't have any, and then there was one strained smile hidden by a beard. The camera made its noise and the flash blinded the trio for a moment.

Then there was the second picture. Whether it was Mr. Winner shifting because his legs were uncomfortable, or maybe Quatre slipped, or perhaps Quatre had an ulterior motive, or even all three combined, Quatre seemed to fall off of his father's lap. Trowa went forward to catch him, and however it happened, by the time the click and flash came, Mr. Winner's eyes were about to fall from their sockets… and Trowa was smiling. 

When the copies came in a day later, Trowa immediately filched two of the second picture, one for him, and one for Quatre. Ms. Susan didn't notice, and so Trowa was able to get away with it and frame his copy, keeping it next to his bed, right by Quatre's phone number. 

He needed that phone number, if only so he could find out if all Quatre's kisses tasted like candy canes.

La fin avec sucre


End file.
